


The Emperors Clothes (afterhours remix)

by kalliel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Cutting, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-suicide attempt, Season/Series 05, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, thrift stores
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:38:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4310844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalliel/pseuds/kalliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam doesn't miss the way Dean's fingers brush down the inside of his forearm.</p><p>Thrift stores, self-harm, and suicide. S5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Emperors Clothes (afterhours remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Can't](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/127521) by a_phoenixdragon. 



"Where was this thing on your prom night, dude. This is--this is fucking fantastic."

Sam snatches something green and sequined from Dean's hands. The fringe slips between his fingers, serpentine, and Sam's nose twitches. "I didn't go to my prom night."

"But you would have," says Dean, earnestly. He extends an upturned palm toward the offending item, reaching for the snakes in Sam's hands. "If you'd owned this little number, you would have. Give it--" Sweep and a grab. Sam jerks away. Dean overextends, winces, pulls back.

Then he concedes defeat. Kind of. "See, I knew you wanted it bad. Keep it close, Sammy. People who come to these places--they're vultures." He gives a slight nod of recognition, chin upturned, as though to someone behind Sam.

Sam twists, and nearly puts an elbow through the thrift store's mirrored centerpiece, lurking directly behind him. Dean's reflection graces him with a stupid, shit-eating grin. Then a wink. 

There's a couple things Sam could say to his brother about now, none complimentary. Better still, he could ignore him. But instead, Sam smiles back. Stretched too wide--lips flat, teeth hidden--and flickering like a birthday candle, but he smiles. 

Dean smiles, too. There's too many lines around Dean's eyes, an exhausted pallor hanging from his eyelids that marks shadows and hollows like white neon. Sam doesn't miss the way Dean's fingers brush down the inside of his forearm. (Sam hopes he didn't pull the stitches.)

Part of this assessment must twist Sam's expression, because Dean abandons their charade shortly thereafter, and heads into the naphthalic world of secondhand denim and cotton button-ups alone. Sam's left looking at the empty space behind him. 

He stands there, lost and motionless, until a very small, polite someone asks him if he's going to buy the green-sequined frilly thing still in his hands. He drops an automatic ' _God_ , no' before he really centers in on the small, polite someone. She has the ends of her bangs dyed Kool-Aid pink and plastic earrings to match. Elated, she takes the snakes--the dress; it's a dress-- from his hands and buys it with all fives, surrounded by a gaggle of girlfriends, all giggling. She looks and acts fourteen.

"Told you." Dean, again behind him. He looks forty and acts twelve. "Never doubt the fashionplate of the decade; he's on a mission from God." Dean dumps several heavy flannel shirts over Sam's shoulder, each burdened with the addition of Dean's pithy commentary. Sam's not really listening. 

_("--this shirt's got the same charm as that little green dress over there, 's been making soccer moms cry every Sadie Hawkins. Minus the sequins.")_

He can almost see up Dean's sleeve as he watches Dean's reflection pull up and away.

"Hey, you feelin' okay? You're zoning on me." Sam can't help but flinch when Dean's hand closes around the crook of his elbow and moves to turn him around. Dean's hands are a mixture of clammy sweat and the dry, papery grit of thrift store pawing.

"No," Sam snaps.

Dean's unfazed, but not persistent.

Sam hands him a shirt from the rack he's inspecting. "Here. You like black."

Dean reciprocates. "Here. You like pink."

Then Dean disappears again. Sam smears Dean's picks atop a mountain of discards and starts over. He doesn't keep anything. (Sam doesn't want a new shirt; he wants a new life. Or a new 2009. _Something._ )

The next time he and Dean find a crossroads, Dean's chatting up the salesclerk. The salesclerk isn't fourteen and Kool-Aid colored, but he's not exactly Dean's type, either. In fact, he misses being 'Dean's type' by wide margins in all 360 degrees. Mid-forties, maybe; dressed in corduroys. Still, they're speaking in a pidgin of vague amusement and animated gestures.

"Blood stains. _Those_ are bitches. I wiped out doing 70 on gravel once; tore up my arms real good. Tore the shit out of my favorite shirt even more. The misses wouldn't even touch it, there was so much blood."

Dean blinks. There go his fingers again. Ulna to wrist, over the fabric of his sleeve. "Sounds about right."

"So you wanna buy that shirt?" says the salesclerk, when he feels the energy of their conversation crackle and discharge. Dean's done.

There's a beat where Dean doesn't respond, and the salesclerk's left with this nondescript plaid wad in his hands. He must be afraid his prospective revenue's about to walk out the door, because he turns to Sam. Nametag on his red apron: Jem. Bruised lip. He has a face like that one guy, from circumstances past. With the laser eyes.

"Don't know if 'wanna' is part of the equation, pal; but yeah, sure," says Dean, when Sam, too, says nothing.

Jem turns back to Dean, and basks in apparent reassurance. Grins. Conspiratorially, but none too soft: "You know, your buddy's got this same shirt on, right now. You two got that twin thing goin' on? 'Cause I gotta say, I'm tempted to tack on a serendipity fee..."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Sam storms the cash register, gives Dean a light shove backward as he swims through thick air and dusty spaces and lands himself right in front of Jem. "How much is the shirt?"

Twenty-five, says Jem.

"Ten."

"Done."

Sam pays in ones, unfanned. Jem's just going to have to take the number on faith.

"That was a little aggro, don't you think?" says Dean, as they clod down the concrete steps and out onto the curb.

Sam says nothing. Then, "Why were you buying my shirt?"

Dean puts on his best display of wounded incredulity. "Not because I dig your taste--it's not like I pay attention to your wardrobe, dude. You gonna go cry to Mindy about it?"

Sam purses his lips. "Who the _hell_ is Mindy."

"Kool-Aid girl!"

Dean remembers her name, but not the shirt Sam's wearing, while they've been driving all this time, and Dean's been staring all this time, and Sam's _been here_ all this time. (And Dean still--)

Dean still shoots him a glare that says nothing's fucking wrong. "Christ, Sam; why does it even matter? Not like it's really your damn clothes. Some of this shit is fifth-hand, so don't get all territorial on me, Fido. It's not really _yours_ yours." He steps in gutter slush as he rounds the Impala and swears.

There's a breath of silence while Dean leans over to pop Sam's door; Sam sees him wince again as he stretches his arm out. Sam gets in, shatters silence when he slams the door. Dean's right. Dean's right; it's a goddamn shirt and it probably won't last long, anyway (not where they're headed). But Sam's had it with their charade, and tired of circling real conversation--real _anything_ \--like a vulture--again with the vultures!--so _this goddamn shirt_ had to take the fall.

When Dean pitches said shirt into the mess of the backseat and forgets about it, Sam neatly shifts his point of attack.

"The car was Dad's."

"Dad's dead." Ignition. Stall. Ignition. Roar. "It's not his anymore."

They drive. 

They drive with a reckless abandon that wasn't cultivated on inner city grids; the denizens of inner city Detroit don't take kindly to the intrusion, and Dean doesn't take kindly to the inner city, either.

 _Now who's aggro_ , Sam wants to say. But it's whiny and petulant and Sam's dead set on never being either. "We passed a place on Grand River Avenue," he says instead. It comes out in a jumbled rush, trampled by what he means to say next. "Dean--"

"No U-turns."

Sam ignores him. "Shut up and listen to me. We need to-- We're--we're not past... _that_ You don't just 'get past' something like that, and end up at some stupid thrift store like nothing happened. Listen to me; I'm serious. I--"

Dean flicks his gaze to Sam, then back to the red light in front of them. "We're past a lot of things, Sammy." He follows Sam's attention towards the steering wheel, his hands, and up his arms. "Case in point. This conversation expired a long fucking time ago." He tightens his grip on the wheel.

Sam's fingers itch with the memory of blood. He forces his eyes to Dean's face and not his arms. _Were you trying to--_ And maybe it's the catch of Sam's breath when he tries to inhale deep and slow and calm. Maybe it's what Dean sees when he glaces at himself in the rearview mirror. Sam doesn't need to finish asking; Dean answers. Kind of. Maybe. More or less.

"Been there, done that." He chuckles. "Too many fucking times. And believe me, that last trip? Just itching to do that again. Angels are awesome. God is awesome. _You're_ awesome." 

Sam winces.

Dean spins them into an illegal U-turn, with a sharp wrench that tints his cheeks with brief red pain. 

"You'll split your stitches," Sam says, but he's thinking about necklace idols lying idle in some trash can far from here. He's thinking of stiff shirts and motel towels, crusted iron and red (also far from here, but not nearly far enough. Not for Sam).

Then they turn onto Grand River Avenue.

"Dean--"

"I know, you miss the dress. Teenybopper's quicker on the draw, man. I told you: Vultures."

"I need to know."

"You really don't." Straight into the gutter slush again. Should've bought boots, not shirts.

Sam can almost see a dull smear on the upholstery when Dean leaves, deep red surrounded by worn matte black.

"I can't help you if I--"

And he laughs in Sam's face, rough and biting. "You've done enough helping, Sam. You've done enough helping to last the rest of the whole damn world. Back off."

He leaves. Sam listens to the slow tick of the engine--seconds, heartbeats--until they cease and the Impala is cold and silent.

Castiel is waiting for them in the lobby. He and the desk clerk appear to have engaged in whatever the hell Castiel assumes is small talk, much to the doe-eyed shock of--name tag again; clipped to a black blazer and not a red apron this time--Marianne. _Thank you for your time Marianne; we can find the room ourselves._

Sam doesn't want to know what Castiel's been telling her.

Castiel fixes them both with an expression that looks like Judgement. Sam only knew him for a day, but he's pretty sure the stare takes muscles Jimmy Novak had never even considered. (They're not his anymore.)

Sam watches his brother collapse on the bed nearest the door. The room smells like smoke under a facade of synthetic flowers. Sam could join Dean, honestly. Every day, 'dead tired' reveals further nuance--you taste exhaustion, just before you start to hear it--but Sam gets the feeling they're going to start scraping bottom as early as next Tuesday. Thursday if they're lucky. He looks toward the second bed.

He could sleep. He could 'back off.' He could give up, as Dean apparently has (for the next four hours, for this month, forever; Sam doesn't know and doesn't try to guess).

Castiel keeps him tethered and buoyed. Castiel keeps him guilty.

Dean clearly doesn't give a damn what Castiel thinks. Without lifting his face from the motel coverlet: "Cas, this is the part where we do human things, and you go get laid." 

Castiel tells them he will leave them to their self-destructions.

Dean snorts. Sam does not appreciate Castiel's newfound sardonic side.

Castiel blinks out, in his place an empty space that leaves Sam more uneasy than it should. Finally, he moves from the doorway. He ends up dumping the duffel on the far bed, but he sits beside Dean. He sinks into insubstantial motel pillows and smells more smoke. "I'm here, you know."

Nothing. Not so much as a twitch.

"I know you feel like I-- I know I _wasn't_ , all the time, every year, 24/7. But people can't--they can't _be_ that, for other people. They can't be shadows." They can't be wearing someone else's clothes, or someone else's skin, or someone else's plans. 

Sam feels stupid, saying crap like this out of the blue, but it's hard to say anything else when you're talking to a wall. He keeps going. "And same goes for you, Dean. I need you. I need _you_ here. 'Cause right now, you're not. And I'm-- I mean, jesus christ; all you've really talked about today is that stupid green dress!"

"Got nothing to say."

"Bull."

Dean drags himself to sitting. His sleeves ride up, and Sam catches a glimpse of thin vertical scars, scabbed and raw and tight. He can feel the dull crash of fear sweep through his stomach and up his throat, mixed in with the concern, and devastation, and maybe even disappointment (though in whom, Sam's not sure).

"Look. You can psychoanalyze 'till you turn blue; I really don't care. Just as long as I don't have to hear a damn thing about it. So do your thing, Sam. Flip your shit over spilled booze, write sad poems. Call a hotline. Fuck if I care. World's still ending. Just by the way."

Sam watches Dean sample the faucet water, hands wet and pink under the steaming flow. _Not his anymore_. He thinks of Dean in the thrift store mirror. He thinks of Castiel in the motel lobby, hard-lipped and solemn. "I'm here," Sam repeats, because what the hell else can he say? "I'm here."

_I'm here._

Dean coughs. His fingers go to work again, white snakes over worn cotton.


End file.
